Freud and the final ending
by Glorfindel's ghost
Summary: SpikeHolden, because it had to be done - a tale of a turning


Freudian:  
  
He still can't be entirely sure whether the guy approached him because he was looking at him- well, more staring really- or whether he was already staring and only came over because he stared back at him. It's entirely irrelevant now really, but it strikes him as irrationally important that he knows. It's both irrelevant and irrational at the time being because he's just awoken to find that he appears to have been buried alive. It's disconcerting...although mainly because he's not entirely sure how he got there and because he now has fangs and a vulkon type forehead. Plus, he strongly suspects that he could stay down here for years and not die from lack of air. Okay, so on that evidence, not exactly buried alive but definitely not dead in a decomposing, corpse sense of the word.  
  
And through the slightly hazy memories of his last night he remains certain of one thing- that his current situation is entirely down to a blond man called Spike. Who, now he comes to thinking about it, he was definitely staring at. Although, all things considered, maybe some things just shouldn't be analysed. Especially when there are more pressing things to be thought about. Like how to get out of the coffin for starters.  
  
The place is packed as usual, hardly surprising considering the lack of other options. Also, as a rule he's noticed that people in Sunnydale like to congregate in big groups, probably because it's safer. Oh yeah, live there long enough-survive long enough- and you realise that maybe your little, non-descript town is more sinister than the Californian tourist board would have you believe.  
  
He gets just how sinister now that he's working at the mental home, realises that quite a few of the people aren't crazy- just not eloquent enough in their terror of the things they've seen to be believable. So now he's drinking them all away, drinking to his own health and his sanity. But drinking alone- not unhappily so at first. The more time he spends studying people, the more he realises that he's much rather spend time without them when he has the opportunity. According to his sister, he's been perkier the last few times he's seen her so maybe it will have some long term benefit.  
  
It's only when he realises that thoughts of his sister were prompted by the strikingly similar looking woman talking and laughing at the bar with friends that he's struck by the realisation that drinking alone is a socially unacceptable thing to do. This leads to a sweep of the place, trying to search out anyone else all by themselves. And eventually his eyes alight on the man standing at one end of the bar, nursing a bottle of beer and most decidedly alone, and -through the admiring glances and somewhat more blatant staring from others- Holden deduces, choosing to drink alone.  
  
Holden himself has always been told that he's attractive, has always known that his easy smile, lime flecked chocolate eyes and healthy Californian tan will help with most things and his exuberant, enthusiastic intelligence and almost guileless charm will see him through almost anything else. These things make life simple and effortless. The guy at the bar probably can't say the same, possessing a striking, almost startling visual appearance that it's on the edge of his consciousness to call harshly beautiful, and has probably troubled him throughout his entire life- attractiveness is useful, but head turning beauty is never anything but problematic. Of course, it could be that the guy adores the attention, and is so stupid that he had to be attractive enough to make up for it. It's while he's lost in this thought that the object of his attention suddenly feels eyes on him, and glances up to find their source.  
  
Holden finds himself frozen, acutely embarrassed at having been caught gawping, expression more that of an escapee caught in the incriminating circle of a sweeping searchlight than of a rabbit in the headlights. Suspicious cerulean eyes regard him from across the bar, and then a dark eyebrow raises querulously at him and a head tilts slowly to the left to regard him, breaking the moment of excruciating agony. Only for another to begin as the man, peroxide blond hair stark under the bronze's lights and bottle of beer in hand, starts to walk over to him.   
  
Resisting the urge to run- and thus escape from the humiliating possibility of being punched in Sunnydale's only club for staring at a strange man inappropriately- Holden waits. Said strange man arrives at his side- well, actually brushes against his side- in a fugue of black- leather trousers and soft black sweater that tickles Holden's arm.   
  
"Am I interrupting a quiet drink or are you as bored with your own company as I am?" asks a British accent that he can't place, vowels and intonations in strange places that make it vague- perhaps with intent. And, unless he's very much mistaken, there's a lot of definite intent in that polite question, highlighted by the downsweep of long, sooty lashes onto pale cheekbones-that seriously, Holden thinks, should win awards for architecture or sculpture or something- and then back up in a slow languorous blink. Holden recognises a patented pulling manoeuvre when he sees one, although he suspects that his own is probably significantly less successful. And, he realises, he's still standing staring. A response is definitely called for.  
  
"Well, I think the concept of having a quiet drink is not something that can ever be successfully tested in the Bronze, so please, feel free".  
  
And with that simple sentence everything is fine.   
  
Forty five minutes later, Holden is simultaneously talking about Freud's theory of dreaming, flirting outrageously, getting progressively drunker and mulling over a very strange comment from his companion about how Freud obviously had better luck with Victorian women than he did. Interesting but rather baffling is Holden's conclusion on the man, who's name, it turns out, is Spike. Or at least that's a moniker he's adopted- it seems vastly unlikely that any mother would actually call their son Spike. Holden suspects that he didn't improve the impression he was giving by blurting out "Oh, I had a boxer dog called Spike. He got hit by a pick-up truck when I was twelve. I cried for days".  
  
Drink always did loosen his tongue. Thankfully now he's past the revealing embarassing and irrelevant things to a man he's known only forty five minutes stage and has had enough alcohol to actually not care what he's saying. He has no idea whether it's an improvement but he just doesn't care.  
  
Although he's still not quite sure why he's allowing himself to sit here and flirt with this man, or why he even came over here in the first place. They're ensconced on one of the sofa's under the stairs, one of those intimate little places where everyone else around them is either at first base or at least planning to get there- and perhaps further- very soon. The air is thick with the scent or arousal and anticipation and yet, here Holden is, still talking about Freud's theory of dreaming. Although of course, since he's talking about Freud, the conversation is sort of about sex. Or at least about the phallic symbolism of combs and umbrella's in dreams. Which could count.   
  
Not that either of them exactly need a live sex show on the coffee table in front of them to actually get them thinking about sex. Spike is sitting face in towards him on the sofa, legs curled up next to him and slightly splayed, one hand resting on his thigh, the other lazily and absently stroking the fabric of the sofa with his head lolling, resting against the back of the sofa in a way that messes up the slicked back orderliness of the peroxide hair when Spike moves his head. Holden wants to stroke down the disorderly hair, either that or just lean over and mess up the rest to complete the just-got-out-of-bed look. And when he's not watching the hair, he's watching the moving hand, unable to keep still and the giveaway of a smoker who's itching for a cigarette.  
  
"I don't mind if you smoke"  
  
"Is that another one of Freud's penis metaphors?"  
  
"Only if that's why you smoke"  
  
"Touche. What was the clue? Do I smell of smoke or something?"  
  
"You just looked a bit...twitchy"  
  
"Nah, I'm alright mate, don't worry, just a fidget. I am getting a bit stir crazy in here though, think maybe we could escape from the corner of horny teens before we get invited to join them? Not really in the mood for public group sex..."  
  
"Are you at any other times?" He only hears the subtext in Spike's comment, sees the suggestive twitch of the eyebrow, after the quip has left his lips, but to his relief Spike only laughs, albeit knowingly rather than mirthful.  
  
"Haven't been struck by the urge lately but you never know when it will hit you. And you should never ask questions like that unless you want an honest answer."  
  
"Hey, I was just asking, people in Sunnydale tend to get up to some pretty interesting stuff"  
  
"Yeah, I've always found that places with a low life expectancy tend to have a pretty adventurous populace- and let's face it, Sunnydale probably has a life expectancy to rival that of a war torn, famine ridden place in Africa somewhere. All of which means..."  
  
"...Kink, and plenty of it". This time Spike's smile is a mixture of amusement and intrigue, with a side order of lecherous.  
  
"That so? Well, you're a Sunnydale boy born and bred, let's hear about your kinks"  
  
Forty five minutes ago, that question would have been mortifying. Now, with three bottles of beer inside him to instil confidence, and feeling rather buoyed by Spike's obvious come-on, Holden makes, what was he now realises in retrospect, his massive error of the evening.  
  
"I prefer to show than tell". Startled blink from Spike then- a small victory for Holden- before he recovers sufficiently.  
  
"Really? Well then, do I need to repeat my request to get out of this hormonal hellhole and go somewhere quieter or do you already have somewhere in mind?" purred in an ironically innocent way and accompanied by a distinct shift towards Holden on the sofa, perhaps impressed by his nerve or possibly just keen to get on with what he obviously already had planned.   
  
Holden reciprocates by moving closer as well, making the little voice that's telling him to go home, take a cold shower and go to bed whimper and run off to hide.   
  
And then Spike's moving, standing up, straightening out his trousers and grabbing his coat. The flurry of activity registers around them, causing a young couple who were rather halfheartedly making out next to them to take the opportunity to grab the sofa. Holden stands rather apologetically, mainly to avoid being sat on since they don't seem to have registered his presence, and almost trips up in his attempts to follow Spike, who's left in the blur of black with which he arrived and is already making for the door.  
  
It's old outside, not cold enough to make you mention christmas approaching, but cold enough to make Holden wince and shrug on his coat when the night air hits him. Spike's standing waiting, looking more than a little impatient and examining a fingernail on his left hand using the glow from a streetlight. His attention flicks over to Holden abruptly.  
  
"There you are, thought you'd got lost".  
  
"Yeah, well, crowds are a little bit more problematic for us mere mortals".  
  
Start of surprise at that, quickly covered by a toothy grin when he hears the sarcasm.  
  
"You should have said- I'd have let you hold my hand".  
  
It seems so inappropriate coming from Spike- the idea of hand-holding like they're little kindergarten kids playing at being a couple in the playground- that he can't help from laughing. The blond head tilts at him again questioningly and Holden fights to get himself under control.  
  
"Something funny?"  
  
"Only if you're me".  
  
"Ahh", coolly and with a disinterested sniff. Holden thinks he may have offended him until Spike looks up and fixes him with a steady, unblinking gaze with just a whiff of mischief.  
  
"Are we going to stand out here all night?"  
  
"Errr...well...mine's no good really...dorm rooms you know, a bit public. Yours?"  
  
"No, I don't think so". Spike bites his lip, and affects an elaborate thinking pose and expression. Still, it's hardly surprising when he suddenly sidles up to Holden, close enough to see the way the lighting makes blue eyes glow gold and white blond hair a garish yellow. Shadows pool anywhere there's a dip or a hollow or a prominent bone.  
  
"Just have to be out here then"  
  
As seduction tactics go it's not particularly subtle and it doesn't allow for refusals. Holden feels the grit of irritation start to worry at the back of his mind and decides to take control of the situation.  
  
"In an alley? Not very classy". He's rewarded with a humourless smile that shows off two layers of perfect white teeth before Spike steps even closer, close enough now to feel the brush of fabric against his skin and the chill of firm flesh underneath.  
  
And then a skilful hand cups his crotch, squeezing lightly with the elegant fingers he'd been admiring earlier on in the evening. Spike's still standing there, looking small right up close as he gazes up at him with hooded blue eyes that glitter, lips slightly parted in a silent question.   
  
Holden answers in the only way he can think of, leaning down to initiate a kiss, and feeling Spike smile against his lips. There's the faint tang of beer in Spike's mouth, and an alien, indefinable taste lingers. Spike's other hand snakes round his neck, drawing him in as he tilts his head.  
  
There's a mist of arousal and confusion descending on Holden the longer they stand there, revelling in the way Spike's letting him take control, sliding his tongue into the blond's mouth and enjoying the way it's met by Spike's own, titillating and massaging. Holden can hear himself moan into Spike's mouth as the hand on his crotch grips tighter, and his hands are working independently to the rest of him, sliding over smooth back, and surprisingly fleshy bottom, and prominent hips.  
  
He can feel himself moving, feet shuffling along as Spike navigates them away from outside the Bronze's door, and there's a bump as Spike's back hits the wall of the alley next to them, the smell of generic garbage- rotten, unwholesome- from the Bronze's bins permeating Holden's nostrils. He twitches, wills the smell to go away, but ends up breaking the kiss so he can gulp in a breath of clean air through his mouth.  
  
Pushed up between him and the wall, Spike's eyes are dancing. The arm around Holden's neck, surprisingly strong, pulls him close and then away as Spike backs him up against the wall, reverses their positions. Spike places a soft, hot kiss on him with wet, kiss-swollen lips and then trails them down his jaw and his neck, sucking on the sensitive pulse point. Holden shifts uncomfortably, rather urgently aroused, and grinds up into the hand that's still cupping him, kneading and fondling through his trousers.  
  
It actually only starts as joint pinpricks of pain on his neck, like the start of pins and needles, and he doesn't actually realise what's happening until his head starts to buzz. The busy hand on his crotch stills. The pain starts as his neck cants- lists- to the side and fangs pierce through, Spike's Adam's apple bobbing out of the corner of his eye as the vampire swallows greedily. And then it's all too much, dark edging into his vision, and his legs buckle. They both slide down the wall, hitting the ground hard, and Spike's pulling away, blood dripping down his chin and fangs glinting.  
  
Holden shakily lifts a hand to his neck, feels the warm blood there and extends the same bloody hand towards Spike, pleading, begging. Then the sleeve of Spike's soft black jumper is rubbing against him again, and a wrist is being proffered to him, bleeding from a single, tiny round cut. His head falls back against the street, something unknown rustling and crackling next to his ear as he lies on it and the bleeding wrist is being thrust against his mouth, Spike kneeling over him with eyes that are glittering again, but not dancing. Holden swallows reflexively, metallic blood sliding down his throat and answering the question of that indefinable taste for him.  
  
And that's it, he doesn't die of shock, just lies bleeding for a couple of minutes until unconsciousness claims him. The last thing he sees before his eyes drift shut is the shadowy blond figure, almost absentmindedly wiping blood from his mouth, head tilted to the left, watching him slip away. 


End file.
